


The Legend, and the man

by Snelly_ESQ



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:09:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snelly_ESQ/pseuds/Snelly_ESQ
Summary: Jack has wanted to be a mercenary for a long time, just like his father. But sometimes, even those who're just playing at it can get lost. Maybe someone in this tavern can help him find home?
Kudos: 4





	The Legend, and the man

Jack wasn’t much one for taverns. 

Matter of fact, Jack wasn’t sure what he’d be one for. He was a quiet mouse, a good boy who helped his mother around the cottage, and who played with pa when he was home. He wanted to be a mercenary, some day, just like Pa. Pa didn’t like the idea though. “It’s a hard life, being a mercenary.” he’d always say. Jack figured his father could be right; he remembered but 2 seasons ago, when he was only 6, his father could move much better. Now, after a long time away, his father can barely kneel, and doesn’t pick Jack up anymore. 

Maybe it was a hard life after all. 

But, Jack was here at this inn, after a long day of playing mercenary in the woods, the snowfall adding a sense of drama and romance to his daydreams, slaying evil kings and saving princesses. It would be better, Jack thought, if we just kept it to playing in the woods, this war business. “It’d be less easy to get lost.” Jack muttered to himself. He was only here for a while, just to ask directions. 

“Oi, child,” A voice spoke, an older man, a vole, sitting at a table with a mug of frothy ale. “You look a tad young fer a place like this, don’t ye?”  
“Sorry, I’m just...lost.” 

“Clearly.” 

“I need to know which way the Great pale woods are.” 

“Great pale woods, eh?” He asked. “Th’place wit all the beech trees n’that?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, I only heard of it, not sure how to get there.” He said. “Mara’ll know, though.” 

“Is she the one hedgehog behind that big wall there?” Jack asked. The older vole laughed. 

“The bar? Yes.” The vole patted the table. “Sit for a while, you look tired there.” He said. He motioned to Jack’s toy sword. 

“What’s yer name, warrior?” 

“...Jack.” Jack smiled a little at the mention of the word warrior. “You?”

“Ira.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Jack spoke. “Are you a warrior?”

“Ah, no. Farming, mostly. Lumber. Family’s been in it fer years.”

“Ah. My pa’s a mercenary.” He said, his feet swinging from the chair. “I wanna be like him, but I don’t know. He seems to want me to do anything else.” 

“Well, life of a warrior is hard, far as I know. My daughter’s one. Seldom a restful night for that girl.” 

“Oh?” He looked around. “Do you know any of these people?”

“Most, aye.” Ira drank more of his ale. “Mostly all live in a little village.” He looked. “Well...save for ‘im.” Ira pointed at a mouse, with a red cloak, and a sword. The mouse looked almost warm and calming in a way, but also quite horrifying. He’d seen war. Everyone there knew it, even if they didn’t know who he was. He had a softer voice, gentle, with a thick north shores accent. 

“Who’s he? D’yknow?” Jack asked. 

“...I believe he may be Martin, son of Luke.” 

“Who?”

“You don’t know of Martin, son of Luke?” Ira shook his head and clicked his tongue. “My boy, he’s the bravest of all the warriors alive!”

“Tell me more.” Jack said. He sounded...skeptical. For one, his father was clearly the bravest warrior alive, just by virtue of being his father, no argument there. But just some random mouse with a soft, tender voice and sad eyes couldn’t possibly be the bravest warrior alive. 

“Long ago, boy,” Ira started, with bright eyes, “A man named Luke, the Warrior, ran a tribe of mice. The warrior was killed, leaving behind his son and his own mother, Windred, who raised him in the caves of the North Shores. Until, one day, he was captured by Slavers, and ended up in the captivity of Badrang, an evil tyrant lord, who stole not only him, but his father’s sword as well!” 

“What did he do?” 

“Well, he escaped, with the help of a squirrel, a mole, a mousemaid, and her brother. But he was split from them, after being attacked by a great fish!” Ira sipped more ale. “He was left with the mole and the mousemaid, and they ventured back to Noonvale.” 

“What’s Noonvale?”

“A little village up north.” He said. “Well...it’s more of a community of...sorts. In any case, it’s where the mousemaid lived.” 

Jack, with a keen love for stories, seemed incredibly excited. “Did he fall in love with the mousemaid? What happened to her brother and the squirrel?”

“Just a moment, friend!” Ira laughed. “Her brother lived, but the squirrel was killed...the squirrel himself, Felldoh, was a mighty warrior indeed!” 

“Poor old squirrel!” Jack proclaimed. 

“Yes, poor old Felldoh.” He leaned in. “The mousemaid, Laterose, fell for Martin, and Martin for her.” Ira said. He winked. “They were quite the couple, I hear.” He’d never quite heard that, but he’d heard of the two getting along real well from a friend who heard it from a friend, so...maybe it was true. 

“Were?”

“...in his battle with Badrang, he routed the villain almost completely.” Ira looked down. “He captured Laterose as a last effort to stop Martin, and...he killed her.” 

“He couldn’t have! First his squirrel friend, and then his love!” Jack was shocked, with his jaw hanging to the floor. 

“Indeed...but he defeated Badrang, who fell on his own sword! In his shame at the loss of Rose, he never returned to Noonvale...and has since come south.” 

“He truly is quite a warrior, defeating a whole army!”

“Indeed, boy!” He looked over. “And that must be him, there.” 

“What’re you on about, Ira?” Mara, the hedgehog woman from behind the bar, who just so happened to be the innkeeper, refilled the mug of ale that Ira had been drinking. 

“Oh, evening Mara.” He smiled. “Have y’met Jack?”

“Jack? Heavens no, lest he’s short for his age!” She smiled. “Do y’want anything to drink? We’ve got cordial, clean water...not much else for a small boy like you, I’m afraid. Milk?” 

“I wouldn’t mind Water.” He smiled. “Can I ask you for directions?” 

“Of course!” She said. “I know where everything is around here.” 

“I need to get to the Great Pale Woods?” 

“My, dearie, that’s...south.” She pointed. “That way. But it’s an awful long walk, and at this time of night there’s sure to be some sort of highwaymen out or someth-”

“I’ll take him.” 

A soft, kind voice. The jingle of a coin purse, and the soft clink of metal on the table. “Oh, but it’s so late, sir, you said you’ve been walking all day!” 

“I could use the exercise.” 

“But the weather the way it is outside, it’d be rough on such a tired man!”

“The boy’s tired, too, he’s half asleep.” 

“Am not!” 

The mouse in the red cloak and green tunic, with thick trousers and an even thicker accent, spoke. “I’ll take him where he needs t’be. Headed south anyhow.” 

“...if you say so.” 

The mouse hoisted Jack up, carrying him on his back. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Jack.” Jack answered, looking at the sun going down. 

“Are you Martin the Warrior?” 

“Is that what they call me now?” He smiled. “I’m Martin, son of Luke, liberator of Marshank. I suppose ‘the warrior’ rolls easier off the tongue.” 

“Why’re you headed south?”

“The north reminds me of...her.” He sighed. “I loved a girl, and she died in battle.” He shivered. “I had friends who died as well. There was that Felldoh...his friend, too.” He shook his head. “Warrior’s life is tough, boy. Some can do it, and some can’t.” 

They walked, talking about the beauty of the pine leaves, and the soft crunch of snow, the cloudy sky somehow bathing everything in a dull glow, orange, then purple, then...a fading gray. The mouse looked about. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

“The land?” 

“The quiet.” Martin gently sighed. “I much prefer this to the din of battle.” 

“What’s battle sound like?” 

“Clanking.” He said. “Slashing. Screaming.” He shivered and shook his head. “The true reward of a warrior is the peace that the end of war brings, not the war itself. Good warriors are good in war. Great warriors are good at stopping it.” He looked back. “Do you want to be a warrior Jack?”

“Pa’s a mercenary.” He said. “My toy sword looks just like his real one.”

“Your Pa has a good sword.” Martin nodded. “So did mine.” He looked at his belt. “It’s a rough life.” The mouse trudged along. “It’s a life of loss. Work. Fighting. Injury.” Martin stopped for a moment, and then kept going. “But it’s only hard when there’s no peace. Sometimes evil tyrants must be vanquished, and in such times, blood is apt to be spilled.” He peered off in the distance. “But try your best to go to war over tyranny, not minor quarrels between nobles over hunting rights or land. Such wars are forfeit. Fighting someone else’s fights for them when they could figure it out themselves.” 

“So only fight tyranny?” Jack seemed curious, as if taking notes.

“Only fight to end tyranny.” Martin smiled. “And never fight for it, no matter how much it would help you.”

“Thanks, Martin.” Jack smiled and yawned. 

“Chimney smoke. Is that your home, boy?” 

“It is.” He said. He pointed, and smiled. “Thank you, Martin the warrior!” 

“Of course, Jack.” He set him down a few steps from the cottage. “You’d’ve done it for me, I hope.” He ruffled the top fur of Jack’s head. “Warriors stick together, even if the life is tough.” He kissed the boy’s cheek, and waved. “So long.” 

Jack was almost awe struck. Here was someone who had done the whole thing, and looked younger than even his father. He blinked a few times...had the kind man been real? He never would have guessed. 

“Jack!” His mother rushed from the house. “Oh, jack, I was worried sick! Where were you!?”

“I got lost, but...that warrior helped me home.” 

“You thanked him, right, Jack?” 

“Yes, Mother.” 

“Good.” She looked out. “Thank you, kind man!” She waved and hollered at the fading figure in the distance. 

He didn’t answer. 

He just walked south.


End file.
